Sunday mornings are my cherished slice of peace. I brew a strong coffee and settle into the couch, skimming the Sunday news on my phone and Twitter feed. Sorry, “X” feed. This morning, a headline caught my eye: “Andrew McCarthy Revisits the Brat Pack Days.”

McCarthy, a staple of 80s cinema, voiced frustration about being labeled as part of the “Brat Pack,” a term coined by a 1985 New York Magazine article. To understand his perspective, I watched the Brats documentary, which delves into the rise of McCarthy and his contemporaries—Rob Lowe, Molly Ringwald, Emilio Estevez, and more.

The documentary was a nostalgic trip, reminding me of iconic films like “The Breakfast Club” and “St. Elmo’s Fire.” However, it also revealed a deeper, more personal side of these actors. McCarthy, in particular, felt the label undermined their individual talents and reduced their work to mere teenage antics. He saw it as a limiting box, overshadowing his serious endeavors and turning him into a caricature of 80s youth culture.

I always thought the “Brat Pack” moniker was cool—a badge of honor. It represented a generation of actors who defined an era, capturing the zeitgeist of teenage angst and youthful rebellion. But McCarthy’s viewpoint made me reflect. Labels can simplify and stereotype, stripping away nuance and depth. For McCarthy, the term was a double-edged sword, offering fame but also pigeonholing him in the public eye.

As I finished my coffee, I realized that perspectives are often shaped by personal experiences. What seems empowering to one can be constraining to another. The Brat Pack may symbolize an era of cool for us, but for McCarthy, it’s a reminder of the struggle to break free from a narrative not of his making.